Shortstories

Thinking The Special Thoughts

I was thinking the special thoughts that I think when I want to make myself feel happy thinking the special thoughts getting them out of the top drawer of the cabinet where I keep them dusting them off and putting them on the mantelpiece. Thinking the thoughts thinking the thoughts thinking the special thoughts. Opening the drawer in the cabinet and getting them out. Shining them up, polishing them up real good. I want them to look their best, after all. I want to showcase them; I want them up on a stand against a backdrop of black velvet with a few spotlights tastefully trained on them. Thinking the thoughts thinking the thoughts thinking the special thoughts only this time they don’t seem to be polishing up so well this time they’re looking rather shabby rather shabby. Not so special. Usually I get this nice warm feeling in the pit of my stomach and then radiating out suffusing my body with the good good feeling thinking the special thoughts feeling the special feeling only this time there’s nothing. There’s just an awkward embarrassed silence like when you tell a joke and no one laughs everyone just stands around looking at you blankly embarrassed for you because it was a bad joke and even if it hadn’t been you’d have ruined it anyway because you always do. I’m waiting for the good good feeling that comes when I think those good good special thoughts but nothing’s happening I’m turning the key in the ignition but the engine’s dead not even a flicker nothing at all the silence is absolute it’s so thick you could cut it with a knife you could carve off big meaty slices from it and serve them up on a plate. With a good dollop of cold lumpy gravy and cold stewed cabbage sitting in a pool of stagnant cabbage water. I keep on thinking the thoughts, thinking the thoughts, thinking the thoughts, turning them over and over in my mind, weaving them into that very special story that means so very much to me, but it’s like a decomposing corpse at this stage, it’s hideous, it’s a horrible dead thing coming apart in my hands. Well this party isn’t exactly going with a bang I say to myself trying to be upbeat trying to laugh it off I’m sitting there all alone with a nearly empty bottle of Thunderbird wine in one hand and a disintegrating haystack joint in the other. There’s a record playing somewhere in the background but there’s a scratch on it and it’s sticking I’m stuck in the moment but it’s a bad one I try to get up but my legs fold up underneath me useless like wet cardboard the combination of Tuinal and green hash-oil isn’t working for me I realized and the Thunderbird wine is only making things worse the room is starting to spin now and I’m aware that I’m not having a good time there’s no one here except for me and my mind and my mind is thinking the special thoughts thinking the special thoughts thinking the special thoughts only it’s just not working for me I’m flogging a dead horse only my arm is getting so tired that I can barely raise it anymore and as I go through the special thoughts one more time I realize that I’m not having a good time I really do want to have a good time but it’s just not happening…